


CHAMPAGNE

by ippoteq



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Post-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 11:39:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ippoteq/pseuds/ippoteq
Summary: A requested piece for my wonderful friend, Max, to help me get back into writing!"Mercy and Moira meeting again after Overwatch's reassembly, outside of battle, by complete coincidence (Moira definitely meant to bump into her though low-key)"





	CHAMPAGNE

If there was one thing Angela hated more than being kept waiting, it was lounge jazz. The instruments of the live band played a relaxed yet jubilant tune, one which had been mocking her since her arrival at the restaurant, and which continued to taunt her as she sipped at her third glass of complimentary champagne. 

At an establishment this sophisticated, it was a wonder they hadn’t told her to leave already. How sad she must look, she thought to herself, dismissing the waiter yet again, with a nonchalant hand and the dry explanation that her date must be “on their way”. There was an unspoken understanding between them now that it was more likely her date was not on their way, and would not be anytime soon. Still, Angela was disheartened; it had taken the pair of them months to organise this dinner, searching endlessly for a moment where their schedules might align. Even now, after weeks of careful planning, something had sprung up - just in time to ruin her evening. 

As she sat there, mourning the death of her perfect evening and the disappearance of her date, the jazz played on. Angela rubbed her temples in slow, methodical circles. Maybe a few more glasses of champagne would help to wash away her disappointment. The champagne drained away and the waiter returned to collect her glass. As she leant her head in her hands, Angela noticed that the waiter who had come to replenish her drink was not the waiter who had been doting on her most of the evening: this one donned a red waistcoat, which contrasted garishly with the cream wallpaper and yellow centerpieces. She lazily dragged her gaze up their chest, admiring their floral pin for a moment - a daffodil, she believed - and then onto their face, where her eyes fixed, widened, on a pair of multi-coloured eyes: one red, bright and fiery to match her waistcoat, and the other a light blue that glittered at her coldly.

 

“Hello, Angela.” Moira’s voice was as smooth as ever, not a hitch or faulter; there was not a hint of surprise in her voice at all. Angela caught herself gripping the edge of the table with a shaking hand.

“What are you doing here?” She responded coldly, “And don’t call me Angela.”

“Sorry… Dr. Ziegler.” Moira rotated Angela’s glass in her long, slender hands, before filling it up with red wine, “I brought you something from the kitchen. You looked sad, and I figured you might be over the champagne” - she placed the expensive-looking Sangiovese down on the table - “I brought you the whole bottle, although maybe you shouldn’t have it all to yourself.” 

“Why so kind, Dr. O’Deorain? I thought we forfeited courtesy a long time ago…” 

Moira chuckled, “Perhaps you did. If either of us in this exchange should have a reason to be sour, surely it would be me?” Her eyes moved from the glass to meet with Angela’s own, burrowing down into her. The stark contrast between the softness of her voice and the hard line of a smile across her face made Angela unbearably uneasy, “May I sit?”

Begrudgingly, Angela gestured with an open hand towards the empty seat opposite her. Moira took hold of the back of it, pulling it out with a sharp tug and sitting down in one motion, crossing her legs to mirror the doctor across from her. For a moment, not a word passed between them. It seemed as though Moira was eyeing her up, evaluating her, possibly even conjuring a hypothesis on how this newest experiment of hers would go. Angela made herself believe that was all this was: an experiment. 

 

“It’s been a while…” Moira said coyly, “Have you missed me?”

“Not in the slightest… If I’d had it my way, I would never have seen your face again.” 

Moira raised a hand to her chest, clutching overdramatically at her blouse with a pained expression on her face. When she saw she was eliciting no response from Angela, she reached instead for Angela’s full glass.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, is it? To the woman you worked with for so many years,” Moira swirled the contents of the glass a few times, “To the woman who brought you wine? Show a little class.” She put the glass to her lips and tipped her head back. The glass returned to the table empty. Angela found herself losing her patience, but fear kept her eyes glued firmly to Moira. Her hand still held rigidly onto the table’s edge. Taking a deep breath, she relinquished her grasp on the table and lowered her hand gently into her lap. 

“What do you want, Moira?” 

Moira sighed; there was a genuine disappointment to it that made Angela intrigued, “I don’t  _ want _ anything, Ziegler. Not a thing… unless a conversation with you is a favour, now.” 

“Why talk to me then, hm? We are not  _ friends _ , Moira. Not after what you did… all those experiments? The dangers you put yourself through, put Overwatch through? Then, after all this time, what you did to Gabe?” 

 

Moira rose from her chair and slammed her hands down heavily on the table, causing the expensive wine to fall on its side, and the neatly laid-out cutlery to wobble in place. The heads of nearby patrons turned at the rattle of silver, intrigued, before going back to their food. Angela thought for a moment that she felt tears welling in her eyes.

“It amazes me, Ziegler, how you can think so lowly of me, of my experiments, when it was  _ you _ that scraped Genji’s mangled corpse off of the ground, and it was you that made him into yet another piece of useless weaponry Overwatch could use to shoot itself in the foot.” Her voice was deep and hushed, and it rattled in her throat. There was a quiet rage to it that Angela had never seen before, “None of that was my doing, and you know it. The hypocrisy of every word that comes out of your mouth sickens me.”

Moira took a moment to breathe. Then, with all her elegance in tact, she settled back into her chair, and rested her interlaced hands on the table, as though nothing had happened.

“I did what I had to do to keep us alive, Angela,” - on this occasion, Angela let the use of her first name slide - “Overwatch was on its deathbed for years. You knew that as well as I did. No matter how often you attempt to convince yourself that what you did was to save Genji’s life, you know in your heart it was inhumane.”

Moira grabbed the bottle from the table and uncorked it, taking a large swig of it directly from the mouth, “If you really cared about ethics? You’d have let him die.” 

 

Another moment passed in silence. Angela observed this woman, a woman she thought she knew, as she became undone in front of her very eyes. There was no desperation in her voice. She was not afraid, and she was most certainly not upset. Nevertheless, she was at her wits end.

“I can’t help you, Moira.” Angela said, finally, “What you need? It is not here, with me.”

“Go fuck yourself, Ziegler. What would you know about what I need?” 

“I know you need a purpose.” Angela felt the words leaving her mouth before she had a chance to stop them, “When you were told to leave? I can only imagine the pain. The same pain that I felt when they told me what was going to become of us. What would there be in the world, for us, with Overwatch gone? I can’t imagine how lost you were, no matter what you try to tell yourself… Everyone needs something to hold onto.”

Moira let out an unrestrained laugh, hearty and from deep in her chest. The other diners looked over, each with a mixture of horror and bemusement on their faces, “You think Overwatch is the only organisation out there in need of a scientist?” Moira stood from her chair and leaned across the table, her face so close to Angela’s that the scent of the wine on her breath lingered in the air between them. “You’d be surprised what Talon can do for a girl like me.”

Angela could scarcely make a sound to express her horror. WIth a pertinent grin on her face, Moira leant back, snatched the bottle from the table, and made her way back into the kitchen. 

 

Angela sat quietly, processing the conversation she had just had. Then, she reached for her empty glass, and caught the eye of the waiter from earlier. 

“Would you mind taking this away, please? I think I have had enough champagne for one evening”. 


End file.
